It was easier getting out of Poland
than into it. Todays border protocol was downright
casual compared to our entrance from Lithuania. We were
waved through on both sides. The Slovakian passport
control dude was a rotund Santa-esque old dude and was
visibly drunk. I wonder if he even noticed us.

Getting to the border was
the hard part, since it involved traversing the Tatra
mountain range. This morning I decided wed avoid
the truck-filled highway and take side roads. My map
showed that this would only add ten kilometers of
distance; what it didnt show was that my diversion
also entailed over 600 meters of additional climbing.
After a coffee-free breakfast (the pre-menstrual waitress
brought us tea and refused to deal with us any further)
and squeezing our bikes back out of the
raccoon-piss-smelling shed where theyd spent the
night, we began our day on blissfully tranquil roads,
ascending gently through verdant valleys. We witnessed
the usual interactions between peasants and livestock,
and noticed a significant increase in roadside chapels
and shrines, many of them elaborately carved wooded
structures with a mountain chalet sensibility. Some
housed statues that were garishly painted and looked like
they were made of marzipan, yet what astonished us most
was Jesus posture in these. Never have I seen so
many representations of the Son of God on all fours,
lying down, or propped up an elbow like a reclining
Buddha. Another striking feature of these valleys was the
density of the population. Most of the villages ran into
one another, a seemingly endless string of four-story
dwellings. Ubiquitous schoolchildren made no effort to
disguise the fact that they found us hilarious, and squat
old peasants walking down the middle of the road and bent
over under heavy vegetal burdens were a constant hazard.
Despite all the activity, there were virtually zero cars,
making for near-perfect riding conditions.

The only thing that kept
today from being totally perfect was passing from one
valley to the next. This we had to do five or six times,
and each time involved coronary-inducing climbs. The
worst of these took us up to an elevation of nearly a
thousand meters and was like pedaling up the side of a
wall.

Back at the border, 62
kilometers and three gallons of sweat since this
mornings start, I began to think about the country
we were entering. What distinguishes Slovakia as a
nation? I once spent an uninteresting day in dreary
Bratislava, an accidental capital if there ever was one.
Other than that touristic mistake, all I know about this
land is that it is or was considered by many Czechs as a
poor relative, a polluted, industrial wasteland. On the
map it looks brutally mountainous, which could make the
300 and some kilometers from here to Budapest very long.
Riding across the invisible line that divides Poland and
Slovakia, I also began to reminisce a little about
Poland, a country I wish wed had more time to
explore. Id miss its vitality and quirky people,
but I definitely wouldnt miss Polands
drivers, which must rank among the worlds very
worst.

I was thinking these
thoughts and pedaling along the interminable line of
trucks waiting to get into Poland when my tire exploded.
Fred says it sounded like a toy gun or a champagne cork
this time, while it reminded me of a burst balloon.
Whatever the case, it was a big drag to replace. I had
rotated my two tires in Warsaw, and getting the
Helsinki-purchased Nokia tire (they dont just make
cell phones anymore) on my rear wheel was an opera in
five acts. Getting it off was no easier; even using a
knife and wire-cutters, the whole process took the better
part of the hour. On the positive side, we provided
entertainment to a number of bored truck drivers.

A new tire in place and
rolling down the road, I was able to drink in my first
impressions of Slovakia. It actually looked distinctly
different from anything wed seen in Poland. The
landscape looked more rugged and pristine, full of tall
pines clinging onto the steep slopes, yet at the same
time it felt more urban and industrialized. Even the
smaller villages had high-rise apartment blocks on their
fringes, but most of the housing was rustic wooden
structures resembling barns, different from those of
Poland by their close-set proximity to one another and
their orientation vis-a-vis the street. The main door of
these houses is always on the long side of the dwelling
and perpendicular to the street. Some looked very old, in
stark contrast to the apartment blocks and factories that
loomed behind them. Catholicism is still very apparent
here. Elaborately domed churches and lurid roadside
shrines abound. As for the roads, theyre much
better here than in Poland, and upon them are far more
cyclists, many of them sporting helmets and lycra.

We were exhausted and
starving when we rolled up to yet another communist-style
hotel in Dolny Kubin, a monumentally unattractive hole of
a town. We rushed to dinner. To distract our brains from
our gnawing appetites, we played backgammon as we waited
for the food to come. I was ahead in the game and bearing
off when Freds appetizer arrived, a delicious crepe
stuffed with barbecued pork. I was so hungry that I
agreed to his ridiculous demand of placing a man back on
the board for every bite. It was well worth it; I still
won the game and feel satisfied knowing that Fred has
screwed up his backgammon karma for months to come.

Though its only nine
thirty now, Im dog-tired and aching big-time.
Hopefully tomorrows ride will be all downhill

5 September, Dolny
Kubin to Sturovo, 105 km

I had great expectations for breakfast after
dinner the night before. I was more than disappointed
when I saw an enormous buffet filled with food that
looked inedible. The weirdest item on the buffet was a
little tin full of sausage spread. If I hadnt been
awake I might have mistaken it for a container of plum
jam. Thank goodness I had the wherewithal to avoid it.

The day before wed
passed through an enormous river valley and today
wed continue along it towards a town called Martin
some 45km down the canyon. The valley became a gorge and
we were close enough to the river to hear it roar like a
caged lion just below the roadbed. Soon we joined a
busier road with a wide shoulder and the valley opened up
once again revealing the fields of grains.

At the outset of this day
wed decided that this would be a mixed mode travel
day. I was keen on being in Budapest on Saturday so we
could go out and have some fun on a weekend. Andy and I
agreed to cheat a little on this day in order to make it
a reality. In Martin we arranged our train travel and set
out to have some lunch while we waited. A walk down
Martins main pedestrian street revealed little of
interest for lunch. We eventually settled on a
substandard hamburger and fries. Downing our lunch we
watch people ogle our cycles as though they were space
vehicles.

The train would prove to
be more interesting than lunch. First was the drama of
getting our bikes on the train. When we went to the
baggage office they demanded that we remove our bags and
leave the bikes with the baggage handlers. Not satisfied
with this idea I enlisted the support of an English
speaking passenger to translate for us. It turned out
that we would have to pay another fifty cents or so to
have the panniers travel with our cycles. We gladly paid
and helped the two aging women put the bikes on the train
to the amusement of all on the platform.

On the train the only
drama was the countryside. All of which would have been
great riding which made both Andy and me a little sad
that we hadnt relied on pedal power. Transferring
the bikes to the second train proved to be as weird as
mounting them on the first. After providing amusement to
yet another crowd of passengers we found a compartment
near the baggage car and settled in to read and write. We
met our compartment mate, a young engineer off to do his
military service in Bratislava. He was very opinionated
about Hungary. He said that it held little interest for
him and that the whole country had "maybe one town
of interest and that is Budapest." His main reason
for preferring his native Slovakia was its proximity to
Austria. We left the train at our destination as he was
getting warmed up to dish on the rest of Eastern Europe.

From Levice we still had
an aggressive travel day ahead of us. Wed planned
to do another 80km to the border and hoped to spend the
night in Hungary. That would make the day 125km on bike
and 150km on a slow train. Leaving Levice (the ugliest
burg in since the border of Poland and Lithuania) was
relatively painless. Within a few moments we were on the
edge of a large and lovely valley weaving our way along.
Every few kilometers wed ascend the wall of the
valley 30 or 40 meters and then roll down to the its
floor. Often wed race through little villages where
locals watched us pass with a mixture of curiosity and
horror. Dogs barked at us, children fled to the side of
the road and their parents glared. As the sun began to
approach the horizon we had entered a grape growing
region. We looked across the vineyards to the Danube
Valley to Hungary, our ultimate destination for the day.
A massive baroque church stood on the Hungarian side that
served as a landmark guiding us to the border. (the
largest church in Hungary, this town had once been the
capital of the nation)

Finding the ferry was a
little more challenging than we anticipated. Finally a
family on bikes was enlisted to escort us dockside. On
the way the Father shook his head and looked at his
watch. Sure enough, the last ferry had left some time
before our arrival. Admitting defeat we set out to find a
place to stay. We came upon a series of signs advertising
the Motel Non-Stop and followed them up a side street and
down an alley. Soon we came upon an unlikely gate marked
with the name of the establishment. We buzzed and were
about to give up when the manager came out to find us.
Looking at us sort of confused he told us he had a room
in a mixture of German, Slovakian, Hungarian and a little
English thrown in for good measure. He talked to us
constantly in this language cocktail while escorting us
through what appeared to be a foundry to an unlikely
entry to a hotel. He reeked of alcohol. Staggering a
little he helped us hoist the bikes up the back stairs
into the hotel. All three of us had cause to laugh when
he pointed out that the front entrance to the hotel was
on the mains street. Both Andy and I had failed to see it
when we drove by.

Against our hosts
recommendation we decided to go to the much advertised
Casablanca Restaurant for dinner. We began to order
sitting on the terrace, but quickly decided to go indoors
after finding that we were more a meal for the
mosquitoes. Once inside we began to order food with
fervor. Two big beers, mineral water, salads, a main
course and dumplings (even though our waitress scoffed at
the idea of three main courses for two people.) Just to
prove our massive appetites Andy ordered another helping
of dumplings which we ate with great enthusiasm.
Somewhere along the way wed ordered a second half
liter of beer each and both of us were feeling a little
drunk. We knew that we had very limited Slovakian
currency left and that we were pushing the limit of our
finances. Any time we hit a border it is always a fun
game to try to spend every last local agouti (bit of
local currency). It is reminiscent of the game show
"The Price is Right," where a contestant must
buy a goods up to, but not exceeding their budget not
knowing the exact price. We knew that we were close to
the end of our cash, even so we ordered dessert with
abandonment. When the check came we laughed upon finding
how close we were to our limit, we had but 19 agoutis
left on a 548 agouti bill. We ordered two mineral waters
to go and bargained the owner down to exactly our
remaining agoutiage. Walking back to town and our hotel
we staggered like the manager of our hotel proud of
having spent every bit of our currency.

Click
on image to see full-sized version

Train trauma in central Slovakia

Click
on image to see full-sized version

Cycling
with our new Hungarian buddies, Joseph, Victor and Atilla

6 September,
Sturovo/Estergom to Budapest, 81 km

Another day, another country. One
of the most incredible features of Europe is its compact
size, especially appreciable after biking 1100 miles
across Texas. Sometimes I wonder if Europe was actually
created for American tourists like me; it really does
feel like Disneyland sometimes. Today we passed from
Slovakialand to Hungaryland.

Sleepy Sturovo is the most
relaxed border crossing weve seen in a long time.
Immigration and customs officials from both Hungary and
Slovakia share a dilapidated tin building and wander
around casually among people wishing to cross or joke
with the waitress in the nearby café. We practically had
to wave our passports in front of the guards faces
to get them to take notice of us and motion us through.
Still, it took us much longer to get to Hungary proper
than we had thought. Estergom and its enormous basilica
(purportedly the fourth largest church in the world) loom
over Slovakian Sturovo from across the Danube and look
close enough to reach out and touch. Once upon a time a
"Friendship Bridge" linked the two towns, but
all that remains are pylons sticking out of the rushing
brown water. The only way across now is by ferry. The
operator of the small boat which plies the river
seemingly constantly refused to let us take our heavy
bikes on board, forcing us to wait an additional hour for
the bigger car ferry. We whiled away the time playing
backgammon under the disapproving glares of the
immigration officials and made a spectacle of ourselves
by smearing sunscreen onto one anothers backs; the
weather was good enough to ride bareback, we decided, and
we didnt have to impress anyone anymore now that we
had already made it through immigration and customs. The
bigger boat was really just a barge, pushed rather
delicately through the raging brown waters by a tugboat
and a tightly organized crew. Fred and I watched in
wonderment as three strong men one looking
astonishing like Obelix of "Asterix"
famemanipulated the mooring cables.

When we finally made it
across, we were greeted with a heartening sight: a bike
path running right along the Danube, toward Budapest.
"Could it go all the way into town?" we
wondered giddily as we pumped against the wind, riding
right alongside the majestic waterway far from any signs
of motorized traffic. Alas, after ten or fifteen blissful
kilometers, our path dumped us onto the highway.

The road led us around
what is known as the "Danube Bend," a favorite
weekend getaway spot for Budapestians and a place rich in
history and natural beauty. We passed through ancient
villages under dramatically steep, castle-topped hills.
In a little town called Visegrad we stopped for an early
lunch at a snack bar type place by the side of the river.
We thought we would eat outside, but when we went in to
order, we got caught up in the hype of Princess
Dianas funeral, being broadcast live with extensive
commentary in Hungarian. Unaware that wed be
subjected to endless replays of the event on CNN, we
munched on delicious sandwiches brought to us by the
places friendly owner, alternately transfixed by
all the royal pomp and admiring the hat collection that
covered every inch of the places walls.

Our bellies full, we
waddled outside to find a yuppyesque family admiring our
bikes. The young couple explained in impeccable English
that they were cycling enthusiasts from nearby Szententre
and that they admired our machines. Even their
two-year-old daughter an avid cyclist
herselfseemed enthralled. They insisted on giving
us a map of the region with a recommended route, causing
Fred and me to remark upon the friendliness of
Hungarians.

In less than a minute
after leaving this generous family, we met up with a trio
of friendly Hungarian cyclists heading in our direction.
Victor, Attila and Josef have been friends since
kindergarten and take day trips from Budapest at every
opportunity. Victor was the most proficient in English of
the three and did most of the talking. Pedaling
lackadaisically alongside us in the busy road, he
explained that he was studying to be a lawyer, while cute
young Attila was learning to repair electronic devices.
We never learned much at all about Victor, who seemed
painfully shy.

The three of them provided
a wind block and guide service all the way into town. We
stopped a number of times once in a little village
where they knew of a cheap ice cream place up a cobbled
street; a couple of times for water to quench our thirst
and pour over our sweaty bods; and finally at a café on
Elizabeth island for a farewell beer, where they gave us
the names of some bike shops and told us to meet them
again on Monday.

Our pre-outing goal for
the evening was to put our numerous pages on Poland up on
the Web. Finding a hotel that would accommodate this task
wasnt as easy as it should have been, and we ended
up in the ultra-glam Kempinski, lured by their weekend
rate and reliable phone connection. I went out in search
of supplies a bag full of whoppers and more liquids
than you can shake a stick atwhile Fred set it up.
Like many aspects of this trip, we have found a routine
that works for us.

It was just around
midnight when we had finished all the HTML and headed out
to Budapests premier homo club, the Angel. The
attitude was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Only
two boys seemed approachable at all, a couple from Dublin
who told us all about being robbed in Prague. They
invited us to join their table, where we were treated to
an excellent view of what is probably the best drag show
I have ever seen in the western world. The highlight was
a tribute to "Hair", with expert choreography
and excerpts from virtually all the shows songs
in Hungarian. It was refreshing to see drag
performed without any lip-synching at all, and one
girls voice was so good it sent shivers up our
spines.

Budapest/Siofok to the
agouti hut in Balatonfenyves, 62 km

Staying out until 2 a.m. drinking
heavily is seldom a brilliant idea the day before you
plan to get up early and bicycle. We could hardly resist
going out just one more time before leaving so we showed
especially bad judgment on our last night in Budapest. We
had to. This city has a contagious energy like New York
or Rome and it had infected us. The busy streets filled
with Hungarians and foreigners milling about at all hours
begged us to come join them. The cafés and restaurants
hummed with feverish conversation on this warm September
night. The night before wed foregone the night out.
We were too exhausted emotionally from the movie we saw.
David Lynchs "Lost Highway" left my brain
aching and wondering what Davids universe looks
like.

Similarly, my head was
ringing at seven when the sun first woke me in our little
Victorian furnished apartment in Shandors guest
house. Id only had five hours of sleep and the
beers and scotch Id consumed the night before
werent helping. The one saving grace is that I had
packed the day before. At least there was once chore
Id been spared this morning. While Andy packed I
went to seek breakfast. We both were craving an
EggMcMuffin and some delicious Hungarian pastries. I
scored on the pastry front but struck-out on the McDo
fare. Seems that Ronald only serves burgers etc., in
Hungary. Surprisingly at eight in the morning they had a
full house of locals munching this fare in lieu of a real
breakfast.

Again, the TrainBrats
decided to use another form of transportation to avoid
Budapests traffic exiting the biggest Eastern
European capital wed been to. Even so on the way to
the train station we had more than one incident. First a
bus ran us off the road, not surprising, it was the fifth
time for me and Id come to expect it from the
charming horn honking bastards. Just a little later I
stopped my bike to allow a merging motorist to pass. She
stopped her smoke belching Skoda and I motioned her to
go. She gesticulated wildly insisting that I go in front
of her as traffic all around honked. I did as she asked
and as I passed in front of her commie car she lurched
forward, clipping my rear pannier. I lost control and
fell to the ground in the street. Unhurt but shaken up I
got up launched into a diatribe against her while she hid
her face in her hands.

After my drama the rest of
the trip to the train station was uneventful through my
hangover haze. As usual it was a challenge get bikes to
the tracks, but Andy somehow managed to find a way to
sneak up the baggage handlers ramp. Once on the train I
dozed after eating a few bites of the nasty sandwiches I
bought in the station. In our car a chainsmoking woman
grimaced at us and acted angry about our bikes. She
changed her seat in the car three or four times before
settling in behind us, coughing consumptively and blowing
smoke in our direction.

Soon we arrived at the
huge lake which we intended to ride along. We managed to
find quiet little paths along the lakefront for most of
the afternoon. The enormous pale green body of water was
obviously the big Hungarian tourist attraction. The
beaches and roads were quiet; few tourists remaining this
late in the season. All of the signs were in German,
sometimes accompanied by Hungarian. This must be where
Franz and Hiedi spend there summer every year because it
is cheap. We lunched lakeside in a café where you could
order in any language as long as it was German. Still
suffering from the night before but feeling better after
a beer, we decided wed make it a short day.
Actualizing that plan was not as easy as it seemed. Many
of the campgrounds and hotels were only interested in
having us as guests if we were interested in staying more
than one day. After some search we found a little place
advertising tourist information. They tried to refer us
back to the Hotels wed just been to. We pointed to
the sign that indicated that they had a "Zimmer
Frei". A little flustered, the staff finally showed
us a tiny cottage just next to the office. It was just
big enough for us to fit our bikes downstairs and barely
pass upstairs to sleep. I slept poorly even though I was
exhausted. I couldnt have a shower because the
water was cold and was uncomfortable as I stuck to the
sheets. Andy loved our agouti hut by the lake and slept
soundly, dreaming of how cheap it was.